The men didn’t bother cleaning up their crime. They even left the tools behind—the tools, I now realize, which were already in this garage. A cabinet in the corner has been busted open, and that’s where the men found the screwdrivers and hammers and saw. Those tools now lie bloodied on the floor around the pieces left of Gabriela.
I don’t know how long I stand there staring, the gun gripped tightly at my side. Blood is screaming in my ears, and my heart is going so fast it slams against my ribcage, and it takes everything I have at that moment not to shout and scream and cry out my frustration.
Then I blink, and I’m able to move again.
I turn and flick off the light and close the door and make my way back outside the house.
Narcos aren’t waiting for me on the street. Neither are the police. The street is empty.
I keep the gun at my side as I head toward where I parked the car three blocks away. After the first block, I slip the disposable phone from my pocket and punch in the number I had memorized a week before. I place the phone to my ear and I listen to it ring and then I listen to the prerecorded message for Scout Dry Cleaners, and when the beep sounds, I tell Atticus to call me ASAP.
He calls back a minute later. By that point I’m in the car and driving back through the streets toward the highway.
“I need two things, Atticus.”
He says, “It’s nice to talk to you too, Holly.”
This causes me to clench my teeth. I want to tear into him, tell him not to fucking start with me, but instead I relay today’s events as quickly as possible so that he’ll understand what’s just happened.
He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he clears his throat.
“I’m sorry, Holly. What do you need?”
I tell him the first thing. I know it’s a long shot, but I figure if anybody has the resources to do it—or can find somebody who does—it’s Atticus.
He says, “It’s not going to be easy, but I’ll see what I can do. What’s the other thing you need?”
“Nova.”
Part Three
The Devil
Forty-Three
At just past two o’clock in the afternoon, Nova Bartkowski steps through one of the exits of Guadalajara International Airport. He’s dressed nicer than I expected—khakis and a dress shirt—and he has a luggage bag strapped over his shoulder. Sunglasses cover his face, so I can’t tell if he sees me at first. I’m standing across the drop-off area by the first terminal. I stand there, waiting, until Nova has time to scan the people and the cars and then he nods briefly and crosses over to me.
I say, “Welcome to Mexico.”
He tilts his head down to look at me over the rims of the sunglasses, but he doesn’t say anything.
“What?”
“Nothing. Wanted to make sure it was you. Feels like a long time since I saw you last.”
In reality it’s been one week since we parted ways. I had just killed Javier Diaz and his men in the elevator of my apartment building. Nova had shown up to help clean up the mess. And then that was it. One week, but yet it did feel like a long time.
He says, “Atticus told me you were in Culiacán.”
“That’s right.”
“So then why did I just fly into Guadalajara?”
“How much did Atticus tell you?”
“He said that you needed my help. Something about a serial killer.”
“That’s part of it, yeah.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“There’s more?”
I grin and motion for him to follow me toward the car.
“Of course, Nova. There’s always more. By the way, what’s in the bag?”
“Just some clothes. Also your new passport and identification.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. James gave it to me. I mean, I think it’s your new passport and identification. I’m not fluent in Sign Language.”
James is Atticus’s assistant—at least, that’s how I’ve come to think of him—and he’s deaf.
“When did you see James?”
“He met me at the airport before I flew out. You know I came in on a private jet, right?”
“Atticus said that was the plan. Was it nice?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
We reach the car—the same car I’d driven the previous night to Gabriela’s—and I pop the truck for Nova to put in his bag. There’s a blanket in the trunk, and I shift it to reveal a brushed chrome Desert Eagle 1911 hiding underneath.
Nova says, “Thank God. I was starting to feel naked without a piece on me.”
He sets the bag in the trunk and grabs the pistol, checks the mag, then stuffs it in the back waistband of his khakis.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Stole it from some narcos.”
“Nice.”
He zips open the bag, rummages inside, and pulls out a Holy Bible.
“Here you go.”
I take the Bible and say, “Um, thanks?”
“The passport and ID are stitched in the front and back flaps.”
I’m tempted to tear the book apart, eager to learn the name of my new identity, but that will have to wait. I toss the Bible in the trunk and slam the lid shut and offer the keys to Nova.
“Mind driving?”
“I don’t even know where we’re going.”
“I’ll give you directions. But I’m just going to warn you—I may drift off to sleep.”
He tilts his head down to look at me again over the rims of the sunglasses.
“When was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”
“Maybe a week? I’m not sure.”
“Jesus Christ, Holly.”
I pause to give him a closer look.
“What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I called Atticus and told
